


veneration

by bubbleteabunny



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 16:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16538324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbleteabunny/pseuds/bubbleteabunny
Summary: Salvation arrives with you.





	veneration

You’re the first one at Fogwell’s Gym this morning, as you are every morning. The morning chill which had been closing in on you for the duration of the walk, icy claws attempting to seep through your jacket, meets its match in the form of the thick metal doors that lead into the building—a losing battle. One last rush of air, one last heroic charge, floods in behind you when you push your way inside, and then the door clicks shut, and you take a deep breath in relief at the warmth you’re now consumed by.

The actual entrance to the gym is across a threshold, and you produce a key from your pocket to unlock it. An overcast gloom shines through the window and it’s not enough to illuminate the space, so you reach over to flip the light switch. The fluorescent fixtures come to life, and you eye the particularly problematic one over in the corner that flickers before properly finding its footing. You’re expecting it to blow out one of these days, but it’s held on for much longer than you gave it credit for.  

With a sigh, you slide your bag from your shoulder and tuck it underneath your desk, and then you plop down in your seat, where, for the most part, you will remain for the rest of your work day. It’s never too busy on the weekdays, but there’s always a consistent traffic due to the gym’s regulars. You could anticipate their arrivals almost to the second, only having to glance at the clock on the far wall at the appropriate hour and follow the  _tickticktick_ of the second hand, from the starting point at the number twelve, and all the way around, until it gets to twelve again, and once it does, the door opens as someone walks in.

The regulars know who you are and smile and wave hello as they come in, duffel bags in their other hand. You glance up from your novel to grin and say hi back. That’s the extent of most of the exchanges, but on occasion they stretch on for an extra sentence or two, asking one another how the weekend was or commenting on how crazy the weather is. Always polite, always succinct.

As the gym comes to life, you stay at your desk, nose buried in a book to pass the time. Everyone knows where equipment is stored and how to set it up. They take care of that themselves. Your main task involved opening up and closing down for the day. Besides that, there isn’t much else to do. The phone line is quiet more often than not, and whenever it rang, it came with menial inquiries about the specifics of the gym’s location. To be honest, you’re not sure why this position exists. You’d been hired right away, leading you to suspect you were the only applicant (which wouldn’t be a surprise—you doubt there’s a long line wanting to land a gig working the front desk of a gym). And while the job is quiet, if a little boring, it’s still a job.

It’s not all that bad, really. The people make it better, kind as they are, and it feels more personable considering how small the place is. They’re the backbone of this gym. There are newcomers now and then, usually out-of-towners here on business or visiting family or some such occasion, and even they during their temporary stints at Fogwell’s have made conversation with the other boxers and you. When they talk to you, it’s usually inquiries on what you actually do, and you rehash your short list for them, like you’re reading from a script. And sometimes one of the men waiting for their turn in the ring will turn to you both at the desk and speak up— _Don’t let her fool you. She’s here to keep the peace. Anyone steps out of line, she’ll knock ‘em on their ass._  That elicits a laugh from the person across from you, and you shake your head playfully.

You suppose it might be accurate to say, then, that the good folks of Fogwell’s Gym are like a family, and anyone who isn’t from the area is made to feel like part of it for however long they’re around. Higher quality boxing gyms are out there, that much is certain, but it’s not the equipment or the services that the patrons care for. It’s the camaraderie built over the years, one of the unfailing constants as the world outside shifts and morphs. Fogwell’s would always pride itself on that.

However, there is one person who doesn’t quite fit in the dynamic. Seeing him at the gym in the daytime is a rarity, but whenever he’s there, he keeps to himself. Each time, before he begins, he slides his tinted glasses off his nose and sets them on the nearby bench, next to his bag. His walking stick rests off to the side as well for the next hour that he’s here, and it’s evidence that he’s a regular: he navigates this space so expertly he has no need for an aid. You steal furtive glances his way from above your book, which is held up to your face, and you study him, curiosity biting at you to learn more about him. He’s a private man, and usually you wouldn’t be so nosy, but for some inexplicable reason you found yourself drawn to him.  

It’s more common for him to show up much later, almost at closing, when most others have cleared out. Sometimes you locked up early if no one came by, but more recently you’ve been there for that last half hour as he trained. You never mind though. It affords you a little more time to make a little more progress on your current novel. He asks if he can stay past closing and you say okay. He cleans up after himself; the fact you don’t have a mess of equipment to put away yourself the next morning is enough of a reason for you to allow it. As you pack your bag, he tells you he’ll lock the door when he leaves, but that you can switch the lights off on your way out.  _That electricity is wasted on me_ , he jokes, and you laugh.

That quick wit catches you off guard, given how aloof he normally is, and you want to talk to him, maybe ask his name, but you can’t gather the courage, and you rationalize it as not wanting to interrupt his training time. If he comes in this late, he must want to be alone, so you leave him with his thoughts, and you leave with yours. Maybe another day you’d say something.

———

Matt knows the energy of Fogwell’s Gym like the back of his hand. It only makes sense, given his long-time association with the establishment. He’d practically grown up there, and this familiarity has turned into a comfort when he feels like he’s losing touch with himself. He feels grounded when he’s boxing. When he’s throwing punch after punch and meeting the resistance of that sand in the bag, when he’s breathing hard and his chest expands to suck in as much air as he’s able, he feels like he’s being pulled back down to earth. No flying too far away just yet, Matt Murdock.

He immediately grows aware of your presence when that energy, so beloved for its consistency, is disrupted. It feels off-balanced, and of course he knows it’s owed to you, but he couldn’t fathom  _why_ you made such an impact. You’re harmless. He has no reason to suspect you of anything. You’re just a normal girl there to do your job. So he forces himself to let the subject go. With time, your presence would normalize, and everything would feel the same again, newly adjusted.

But the days pass, and he hears you laugh at a joke someone says, or he hears you give a polite good night to him when he’s there late and you’re about to go home, and his chest tightens a little. You aren’t fading into the background with all the other sounds and sensations. You still stick out, but less like a sore thumb and more like a flower in a crack on the sidewalk. And Matt realizes he prefers you in the foreground, so keeps you there. He looks for you, searches for your presence, and he holds onto it tight.

Whenever he should be at Fogwell’s in the day, he can feel eyes on him. Some pass over quickly, and some focus for a little longer to observe his form as he trains. But the only ones he cares about are yours. Others in the gym watch with tough gazes like muscle and sinew, admiring the punches and the footwork and the strength. You watch with a warmth like the blood in his veins, and it’s impossible to ignore that which courses through a body, that which gives reason for a heart to beat.  

At night, your stare is more apparent, given you’re the only other person in the room. And he knows you stall on purpose when packing up, extending the time you can stay there watching him if only by seconds, but you’d take anything you could get. You move sluggishly under the guise that you’re gathering your belongings, but there isn’t much to gather. When you can delay no longer behind your desk, you walk to the front door, and you’re light-footed so he doesn’t hear your shoes on the concrete, but he can feel it, the vibrations traveling through the floor and zipping straight to his own form, registering in little bursts, like little balls of lightning.

_Good night_ , you say softly. Matt has difficulty breathing. Then you open the door and linger for just a few more moments, sparing one more glance over your shoulder at him, and there’s the click of the lights switching off and the street lamps outside pouring in through the window make him nothing but a silhouette to you. Another click signifies the door has closed and you’ve left. He listens in on your footsteps as you exit the building, a makeshift metronome timing his every hit on the speed bag—one punch on the down-beat, one punch on the off-beat.

This quickly becomes routine, and it’s a comfortable one. The quiet intimacy of those several minutes when he comes in and you’re preparing to head out makes him feel closer to you despite not even knowing your name. There aren’t many words exchanged because there’s no need for them. The prevailing silence speaks for you both, for it’s laced with an air of familiarity and it’s enough for you to be more than mere strangers. But in the back of his mind he wonders if this could ever be something more.

He knows when you smile, even if you don’t think he can. He senses the little upturn of the corner of your mouth as you watch him train. Though you’ve not spoken much to him besides  _Have a good night_ , and in a tone no louder than a hushed murmur, kind and so tender he swears you’ve got fingers plucking at the strings in his heart as it skips a beat or three, the care with which you form each word, lips curled around every syllable, leads him to believe you were born with that gracious grin on your lips, and you’re an angel blessing the saints and sinners alike.

It’s what finally drives him to talk to you one night. The gym is usually cold but when you say goodbye and he can  _hear_ your smile and it warms him from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, he decides he can no longer stay quiet. Before you can open the door, he turns to you and asks if you could help him wrap his hands.

You stop short and tilt your head, still smiling. “Sure.”

Matt takes a seat on the bench and holds out the roll of cotton hand wrap. You’ve never had to wrap anyone’s hands, and you’re recalling all the knowledge you’ve managed to attain from watching others do it in your time at Fogwell’s. The room is noiseless as you work, and you break it, less because it was unnerving (it isn’t) and more because there’s a question you’re itching to ask.

“You never looked like you needed assistance,” you begin, never stopping in your movements. “Why now?”

Matt doesn’t respond right away, too focused on your gentle movements. You’re looking for the right balance as you tug the wrap over his hands and wrists, not wanting to pull it too tight, but also trying to ensure it sits snug against his skin. “It’s nice to have a little company sometimes.” He shrugs, and it could’ve been left at that, but he decides to continue. “And I was hoping to get to know you better. At least get your name, since I feel like we’ve reached that point.”

You chuckle, and Matt smiles slightly at the sound. He’s right. Currently, you and he know each other without really knowingeach other, like the same two strangers crossing paths every morning commute. While that’s all good and fine, it would seem both of you weren’t content with allowing this state of affairs to remain as such forever. A first name basis is, therefore, the next logical step.  _The next logical step where?_ You don’t try to answer the question, not wishing to muse on what-ifs.

As you tell Matt your name, and answer his follow-up question about how you ended up working at Fogwell’s, it occurs to him that this is the most he’s heard you talk. He’d been acquainted with you prior to this, that much is true. But he isn’t referring to your mostly wordless exchanges every evening he stops by, and you pass him on your way out, giving a quiet good night. It’s more than that. What he knows of you comes from your light footsteps, the wideness of your strides he deduces from how long it takes to hear the quiet patter of your shoes hit the ground. He knows you from the sifting of your finger along paper as you turn the pages of your novel; from the little sighs you heave when you’re tired; from your heartbeat that echoes in his eardrums like it’s his own. But now he gets to know you from your voice, and it brings to life all the little details he’s learned about you thus far. For someone so reliant on sound, to hear a voice means a lot, means the most, and in this moment he feels himself to be a nomad in the desert who’s found an oasis, kneeled down at its edge, and at his most desperate hour gleaned from it sustenance. He’s being pulled from the precarious line between life and death into life and maybe you aren’t an angel—maybe you’re God.

“And what about you? What’s your name?” It’s your turn to ask.

“Matt.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “My name is Matt.”

“Well, Matt, it’s very nice to meet you.” You secure the wraps and slide your hands away from his. He misses your touch already.

He curls and uncurls his fingers, testing the security of the hand wraps. They’re perfect. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

———

Somewhere along the line after mere strangers have become mere friends, mere friends become a little something more. You don’t keep tabs on the particulars. Neither of you officially addresses the shift in the relationship. There’s no need to. There’s only the mutual understanding that the feelings you harbor for each other err more on the side of lovers, and both of you prefer the method of showing over telling.

The first time you’d made your feelings known hadn’t been in an entirely clear state of mind. Matt had won his most recent case, a difficult one. His frustration he’d made known to you every night over the phone or in person if you came over, and the stress permeating his words forced sighs from your mouth. You hate to see him like that. So when he wins, you’re riding cloud nine together.

He has drinks in his apartment but you supply your own because you don’t like his selection (you’ll admit it—you’re picky). And you raise your glasses to a job well done and throw your heads back, the alcohol burning your throats but it’s a good burn. You get carried away with your drinking that evening. Usually you have better control, but you don’t have work tomorrow, and neither does Matt and he’s pouring glass after glass just as easily as you are. The hours wear on and your inhibitions and your vision are getting blurry, and there’s the ghost of a smile on Matt’s lips as you lapse into silence. The air is buzzing with an unseen force and you lean your head on the back of the couch, staring at him.

“What?” he asks finally. He could feel the heat of your stare. He always can.

You shake your head sloppily, mind a bit cloudy, and then you give him a verbal response. “Nothing.”

He must sense exactly what you do, that energy that seems to be closing in, little by little, trapping you two in this space. “But it’s not nothing, is it?” It comes out quietly, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath. Alcohol makes people say dumb things but you know that Matt’s speaking from what’s left of his sober side (not much, but still more than you).

Your eyes narrow and in your half-drunken haze you’re trying to figure out if he means what you think he means. And you want to ask, but your brain’s not working well enough to get all the words out. Instead, you lean over to set your glass on the table, and Matt’s brows furrow as he hears the clink, and you turn to him and kiss him. You forgot about his own drink, which still has liquid in it, but luckily he’s aware and lifts his hand away so you don’t spill anything.

The kiss is messy due to your inebriation and if you weren’t fully drunk before, you are now, for it pushes you past the tipping point. Matt’s lips are chapped and they’re harsh against the softness of your own but you don’t care. He manages to set aside his glass and wraps his arms around you, pulling you onto his lap.  

You’re still in his bed the next day, and you talk quietly, neither of you in a rush to stand up just yet. He runs his fingers up and down your arm, touch feather-light, and he feels the goosebumps that raise with the steady back-and-forth motion. And he’s smiling as he listens to you talk about a book you’ve been reading because he’s just glad that you’re here with him, and maybe you know that’s the reason for his grin or maybe you think it’s because he’s enamored with the plot. Either way, the sight of it makes you smile too, and distantly he wonders if one of these days he could tell you his secrets. He’s the devil aching for absolution, and who better to get it from than God?

———

This is bad. This is really bad.

Matt slumps against the wall, one hand bracing himself against the rough brick and the other going to the wound in his torso. He’d been stupid, reckless. He should’ve been paying more attention. If he had, he would’ve noticed one of the guys pulling a knife from his boot. The adrenaline had kept him from noticing the injury in the midst of the fight, but now that it’s over, pain shoots through him and he can’t stand properly. The blood seeping through his fingers is thick.  _Shit._

Getting home would take forever with a hole in his stomach, and he’s not too confident he could make it all the way without passing out at some point. He needs a way to halt the bleeding and patch it up temporarily. As he repositions to lean back against the wall, he takes stock of his surroundings, checking if there’s somewhere he could grab supplies.

Wait. He knows this area. And he knows a place he can go to. He’ll be doing it reluctantly, however. If he’s honest, he would rather steer clear of it, but he can’t deny the fact it’s the best option short of hobbling to Metro General, and he’s not about to show up in a location that public. No, he would have to go to that apartment building, just a couple blocks over. He knows he can get help there.

He almost doesn’t think he can make the climb up the fire escape, but by some miracle he does. When he arrives on the appropriate floor, he knocks hurriedly on the window. His head feels light, and he’s getting a little dizzy, and he ends up putting most of his weight against the glass for some sort of support. He’s losing blood fast, and subsequent raps on the window grow slower and quieter, devoid of strength as he is.

The sound of knocking nearly causes you to drop your mug of tea, and you twist around, eyes going to the door, but you tilt your head in confusion when you notice that isn’t where the knocking is coming from. Brows furrowed, you set your mug down on the counter and step out of the kitchen to find the source. As you turn into the lounge, your eyes widen at seeing a figure outside on the fire escape—first in fright, and then in shock as you see just who it is.

His knocks have faded, and from posture alone you can tell he’s weak. You rush over and undo the latches. Once you open the window, he nearly falls through, and you wrap an arm around him to support him. It’s difficult because he’s taller and heavier than you are, and he tries to do what he can, standing on shaky legs and dragging his boots along the floor as you guide him to the couch. He lays down with a groan, hands going to the stab wound in his stomach.

“Holy shit,” you exclaim in a whisper. Not only is Daredevil in your living room, Daredevil is bleeding out in it. “Um… h-hold on.”

You run to the bathroom for towels and the first aid kit. It’s nothing fancy, containing just the basics, but you would have to make do. Your unexpected visitor is quiet as you set to work, too exhausted from the strain on his body to make any noise or put up any resistance as you get to work. Carefully you pull his hands back and rest them at his sides, allowing you to fully view the wound, and you bite back a gasp at the sight of it.

“ _Fuckfuckfuck_ —" With shaky hands you apply pressure to staunch the flow, and as you hold it there, you take deep breaths. You need to calm down if you want to be able to stitch it up. Your gaze slides from the wound up to Daredevil’s face, and from what you can see of it is entirely relaxed. Had he passed out? You wouldn’t be surprised. He took quite a beating.

When you’ve done what you could, you slump to the ground and heave a sigh. There’s blood on your hands and the towels and no doubt on the couch. You think you could just fall asleep here, and you nearly do, allowing your eyes to slide closed for a moment. But you force yourself to your feet and to the bathroom to wash off the blood, then to the bedroom. You fall onto it, not bothering to get under the blankets. It’s not long until you doze off.

By morning, you almost don’t remember what had occurred last night. It’s only when you see the dark red splotches on the now unoccupied couch does it all come back. There’s no getting those stains out. That’s okay. You’d been meaning to get a new couch anyway. Your mug of tea is still where you left it, and you ever so slightly deflate to find no note. None here, none on the coffee table. You were hoping to get some sort of explanation or thanks, since Daredevil was the one to come to your house without warning. But you don’t dwell on it. You just hope that what little you were able to do could hold long enough for him to get patched up properly.

You sigh. What a night.

———

You seem distant, and it’s characterized by your unusual silence. Matt listens to the sound of your fork sliding around on the plate. Despite sitting across the table, you feel farther away than that.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently, letting it be known that you don’t have to share if you don’t want to but that he will be there to listen if you do. He doesn’t actually need an answer because he knows what the cause of it is, and a weight seems to settle on his shoulders with the understanding that it’s him. He’s what’s bothering you. He’s what’s on your mind and maybe it’d be sweet in a nicer context, like if you were thinking of Matt Murdock. But you’re not.

“Um…” you start. He hears the fork being set down on the plate. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Matt.”

Your volume decreases with each word, and his chest tightens when you whisper his name. The way you say it is indicates to him a sense of desperation, of wanting to understand but unable to no matter how hard you try. He purses his lips, waiting to hear it, hear the story he knows just as well as you do because he was the other main character, and yet for all that anticipation he isn’t prepared.

The words spill from your mouth quietly so other occupants of the diner don’t overhear. Distress is apparent in your voice as you recount the fact you had the fucking devil of Hell’s Kitchen in your apartment with a hole in his torso; as you reiterate the point that you aren’t a medical professional and you didn’t have the proper tools; as you admit things you don’t fully realize about yourself until right now, laying it all out—that you’d felt fear to see him in that position, so unsure as you were if he would be okay at the end of it.  _Because it was awful, Matt_. You sound like you’re about to cry.  _I had his life in my hands and I could’ve fucked it all up._

But you didn’t. That’s what Matt tells you. He says that of all the places Daredevil could’ve ended up at, surely he’s thankful that it was yours. Of course, showing up at your apartment hadn’t been random, but you couldn’t know that. You have the heart to help and that’s what matters. What little you claim to have done (and he says this because you did plenty) is still better than nothing.

You shrug, neither denying nor agreeing with the statement. Your mind is still bogged down from the stress and the stakes you’d been up against that night. Matt can sense you’re considerably less stiff, but still not relaxed. And he hates that he’s why. He’s sorry to have pulled you into that shit, and he tries to think about what would happen instead if he hadn’t gone, but it’s nothing pleasant. He’d be worse off if he had to wait any longer to stitch up that wound. You had his life in your hands because he trusted you with it. It hadn’t ended up in your palms, it had been a deliberate decision. You’d saved him again, taken him from that divide between life and death into life. How much could possibly be owed to someone with power like that?

The truth would be a good start. It wouldn’t be enough, not now, not ever, but it’s something. And he wants to tell you everything because you deserve it. He knows firsthand what happens when he keeps secrets from those he cares about, and he doesn’t want to do that to you. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

In the small church comprised of just the two of you—of priestess and churchgoer, of saint and sinner, of God and the devil—the space of consummation and confession are one and the same. The rain ruined plans to go out for dinner, neither of you wanting to brave the inclement weather, but you’re both happy to stay in his apartment instead. And Matt doesn’t want to say he’s stalling but that’s exactly what he’s doing, as you talk about everything and nothing and he leans in to peck your lips once, twice, thrice as though the next one might be the last. He savors the taste of moscato on your lips and the smoothness of your skin beneath his fingers.

A lull in the conversation is his cue to speak up, but he’d rather keep kissing you. He’s beginning to second guess himself and his decision to tell you who he really is. The gravity of telling you is almost too much to bear, and it’s difficult to muster the strength. But he knows it must be done because as it stands, there’s a wedge between you, and you can’t get any closer until he confesses. And he wants to get as close as possible, to study the soul of the one who cradles life in the palm of its hand.

When Matt says he has something to tell you, you respond with a quiet  _Okay_. You watch as he retreats to the bedroom briefly, and he returns with one arm behind his back, clearly hiding something.

“I thought about how I would come out with it,” he explains, “but I figured there wasn’t anything to say that would be better than just showing you, so…”

You’re not left to guess at what this could mean for long as he reveals a mask. He holds it out to you, and your hands are shaking as you take hold of it. There’s no mistaking what it is, or what it implies about the man in front of you. Your fingers run over the little horns, trace the black lines running down along the temple. The red eyepieces are menacing in the low lights of the flat, and in your mind flashes memories of the night you’d seen it up close for the first time. But they had never looked upon you meaning to intimidate. They had looked upon you desperate for help and with a warmth of familiarity and comfort that you’re sure was there but that you had glossed over because of the urgency of the situation, and because the last thing you would’ve suspected was that it was your own boyfriend.

Mask still in your grasp, you glance over at Matt, who’s sitting next to you, looking at you but not truly  _looking_ at you, and you sense that same warmth, that of someone who’s found home, that of someone who understands it isn’t seen but felt. It worries you to now know he’s the one putting his life on the line every night. You’d had to patch him up yourself and even then you’d been so frightened for him without knowing who was behind that mask. You want to tell him to be safe, but you figure it’s superfluous because of course he knows that. It’s just that sometimes things happen. He can’t come out of every fight unscathed. So you at least consider it a victory that he always comes back to you by morning—maybe scratched up and with some ugly bruises, but it’s still your Matt.  

The lights of the LED sign outside bounce off his face like some sort of psychedelic fever dream, and his gaze is unfocused and doesn’t meet your eyes, dropped just slightly so it’s more like he’s staring at your chin. He’s tense as he waits for your response, and you reach out a hand to take hold of one of his. He instantly relaxes.

“Thank you for trusting me,” you murmur, smiling softly.  

At your words, Matt grins and kisses your forehead. Slowly he sets a hand on your cheek, and he’s gentle as he runs his thumb along your lips, feeling your smile, that heavenly curve he’d like to live on forever. The downpour is a choir and the only hymn within these four walls is your name, sitting on the tip of his tongue, whispered over and over in utmost adoration. He focuses on the sound of your heartbeat, every pulse like the roar of thunder in his ears, and in the quiet seconds that follow his heart squeezes, and he knows that he loves you.


End file.
